The Beaker People walk out into the Lower Meadow. They are wearing wellies and motorway hi-viz anoraks, and carrying umbrellas. The younger men (i.e. under 80) may carry planks, to enable easier walking on boggy ground.
Archdruid: Behold! What yellow orb is floating, only half-hidden by cloud?
All: A sign! A sign!
Hnaef: The sun! The sun!
All: The sun! The sun!
Archdruid: Let us join in our Pleas to Swithin.
All: Oh Swithin, what with you being such a weather saint and all, on this your special day - please can you make it rain somewhere else? Ideally in the Southern US, where they need it. Or failing that, maybe Manchester? Only they're used to it. It's not that we're superstitious, although of course we are. But we really don't like the thought that the weather's fixed for 40 days from today, if it's gonna be like the the last 40. So, if you're really all you're cracked up to be, and if God doesn't mind us dealing with middle-men as such, rather than going direct - can you see your way to putting a word in for us? Ta. Love you. I mean, Amen.
Archdruid: And now we sing the traditional Hymn to Saint Swithin.
All: Rain, rain, go away. Come back another day. Rain, rain, go away....
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